Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries: A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6

by Pamela DuMond

  Mack likes a lot of dead things, Diary, and this was starting to freak me out a bit. Did Julia tell Mack about my latest psychic development? If she did, rest assured I would no longer be her designated driver for her speed dating events and the obligatory celebratory cocktails imbibed thereafter.

  I peered at my computer and continued to read Mack’s profile as all the little hairs on my arms stood up like soldiers on alert.

  His profile picture seemed to smile at me: He appeared to be twenty years old, attired in a football uniform complete with a helmet on his pretty head as he cocked the ball high in the air behind his head, looking where to hail that puppy for the game-winning pass.

  I quickly scanned his other photos: he had some salt in his dark brown hair, his teeth were white, his smile perfect, and he was in great shape.

  Ack! A small squeak escaped from my lips as I realized Mack “The Man’ McManus just requested to be FB friends with me.

  How could this even be possible, Dear Diary?

  Mack McManus was the guy I dated for a semester, junior year in college. Mack ‘The Man’ McManus was the guy whom I rounded second, made it to third, and eventually landed at home plate for the very first time—ever.

  Okay—fine, if I counted, I hit home plate with Mack about one hundred and fifty times after that. Being with Mack made me totally cool for the four and a half months I dated the gorgeous, built, captain of the football team.

  My reign as unofficial queen of University of Wisconsin, Whitewater, ended abruptly when Mack dumped me the very day football season ended, and took up with the incredibly simple-minded, albeit surgically perky, Bailey Bubeck—whose father, Bob Bubeck owned all five Cadillac dealerships in the county. They announced their engagement the end of Mack’s senior year, and when he wasn’t picked in the NFL draft, he married Bailey, and went to work at King Bubeck’s Cadillac Empire.

  I’m sorry Dear Diary—but what the hell was Mack ‘The Man’ McManus thinking sending me an FB friend request? While his wife might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, I didn’t think she’d want her husband friending—even on Facebook—his ex-girlfriend.

  What would you do, Dear Diary? Would you ignore him, delete the request, or accept just to be nice. I mean, he still looks like the old Mack. I know, I know—it’s probably an old photo.

  Oh, enough about me, Diary. I hope all is well with you. I have a tendency to go on about myself in these entries. I don’t even really know how this helps Grady. He says positive energy wafts from these journals, surrounds and hugs him tightly, encouraging him to work very hard to do what he loves. And I’m all for positive energy.

  If you have any great advice, Diary, feel free to give me some kind of sign—I’m usually open to stuff like that.

  Must go. My cat Theodore is swatting my leg, and I now have three bloody pinprick holes in my shin. It must be wet-cat food feeding time again.

  Xo,

  Annie Graceland

  Pumpkin Spice Cupcake by Laura Devries from Cupcakes-A-Go-Go

  This recipe is super-easy and doesn't even need a mixer if you don't want to use one.

  Ingredients:

  4 large eggs

  2 cups granulated sugar

  1 cup canola oil

  15 oz. pumpkin

  2 cups cake flour

  2 tsp. baking powder

  1/2 tsp. baking soda

  1/2 tsp. salt

  1 3/4 tsp. pumpkin pie spice

  Combine first 4 ingredients in a large bowl. Mix at medium speed until smooth.

  Combine flour and next 5 ingredients. Stir flour into wet mixture until well blended.

  Line cupcake pan with paper liners, and fill 3/4 full.

  Bake at 350° approximately 22 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

  Vanilla Cream Cheese Frosting

  Ingredients:

  1 package 8 oz. cream cheese, softened.

  4 tbsp. butter softened

  1tsp. pure vanilla extract

  1 pkg. (16 oz.) powdered sugar

  Directions:

  Using a hand mixer or stand mixer, beat cream cheese and butter until smooth.

  Add vanilla.

  Add powdered sugar gradually and beat until light and fluffy.

  Frost cupcakes after they have cooled.

  Chapter 6

  Happy Hour

  Julia

  Hey Diary,

  I arrived a little early at Chaz on Main Street in Santa Monica, California, a local hipster watering hole, and I must say I’m feeling pretty optimistic about tonight. My short, blond hair is coiffed in a sassy, flattering style, my lipstick is poppy red which complements my complexion as well as my blue eyes, and I’m wearing a dress that shows off my girls but isn’t overly suggestive for a meet and greet style first date.

  I’m sitting at the bar waiting for my ‘date’ to show. It’s happy hour and the cocktails as well as the sushi are half price. I recently discovered that sushi has hidden calories. You think you’re eating raw fish and that’s totally watching your diet—right?

  Wrong. According to the calorie police, a couple of California rolls have about as many cals as a Big Mac with a side of small fries. So, as my grandmother Alta Kirkland Devereaux, always said, “If I don’t watch my girlish figure, no one else will, either.” Therefore, I’m forgoing the half-price sushi and having a little cocktail while I wait for my J-Date, David Bernstein, to arrive.

  We’ve chatted a few times online. David’s funny, divorced, an entertainment attorney, and likes to play tennis. Who knows? It’s all a crapshoot, right? Maybe we’ll hit it off, fall in love, and thirty-five years from now, our beloved grandchildren will run their chubby hands over my wrinkle-free, expertly lifted face, and say, “Bubby Bernstein, we love you so much. You’re the youngest Bubby on the block!”

  Or, perhaps, after tonight’s date, David will walk me to my car, try and swipe a kiss and promise to get in touch with me.

  And maybe he will? Or, maybe I’ll never hear from him again. But all’s fair in love and war because that’s the way this game is played.

  Bye for now… oh wait—one more thing.

  I think Annie’s pissed off at me because I accepted her former flame, Mack ‘The Man’ McManus’s FB request, and now he’s trying to ‘friend’ her as well. Whatever. It’s not like he lives in the same town as she does. How bad can it get?

  Seriously, Diary, who cares about this stuff? An old beau surfaces on FB. Happens almost daily for me. You accept their friendship. If the guy makes a lewd comment you just shut them down with a lewder comment, or you un-friend and block them. It’s no big deal, right?

  IMHO? Annie needs to suck it up, be less sweet and emotional, and grow a pair. On the other hand, one of the reasons we love her is because she wears her heart on her sleeve. That hasn’t changed since I knew her in high school. In the last twenty years, she’s gained a few pounds—haven’t we all—sports a few more twinkle wrinkles, but she’s still the sweet, somewhat naïve chick with more-than-a-pinch of psychic ability—I mean intuition.

  Gah! Should I scribble all this out?

  Oh wait—I think I spotted David Bernstein! He’s super cute, has a thick head of salt and pepper hair, is dressed upscale casual, and is heading toward me with a smile on his face. Oh, squee! This might be a really, really good first date night. I’ll fill you in later!

  Hugs,

  Julia

  Chapter 7

  Cosmic Rulebook

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  I accepted Mack’s FB friend request. PLEASE DON’T JUDGE ME!

  After I fed Theodore some wet cat food, I prepped the rest of the cupcakes, popped them in the oven, and set the timer. Then, like a really stupid moth to a stupider flame, I popped back on Facebook and skimmed Mack’s page.

  It appeared he was divorced from Bailey, had no children, lived in Las Vegas, and worked at a used car dealership called WEPOC that had a huge online presence as
well as physical locations. It also didn’t appear to be owned by his former father-in-law.

  I make it a point to reach out to whomever ‘friends’ me on FB by saying, “Thanks for the friendship!” on their page. So I did that with Mack. When the timer beeped, I pulled the cupcakes from the oven and set the trays on cooling racks on my kitchen counter. I had planned a vanilla cream cheese frosting recipe—but it wasn’t going to make itself while I wasted all my time on social media.

  Lucky for me, my boyfriend, Detective Raphael Campillio, had agreed to pop over for a make out session to taste test my newest concoction. After whipping up the frosting, I hopped in the shower, used a loofah to exfoliate, toweled off, and slapped on some body butter to keep my skin smooth. I threw on fresh yoga clothes: stretchy capris, a workout cami, quickly brushed my long, auburn hair, and pulled it back in a ponytail. I applied a light coat of mascara and swiped some rose tinted lip-gloss across my lips.

  I eyed myself in the bathroom mirror: not a supermodel, but not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old divorcée who’d been through hell and back during the past year. Suddenly a chill descended through my body and I scrunched my eyes shut and shivered for a few seconds. Crap. I knew exactly what this chill was from—it was another empathic hit—this time from the presence of a ghost who was sharing the tiny room with me. Yuck.

  I blinked, gazed back into the mirror and spotted the ghost of Dr. Derrick Fuller. He stood behind me, grinning widely, buck naked—except for his silver Pucci thong that he died in. I frowned for multiple reasons: one being that I wished he’d passed away in a three-piece suit, or at least tasteful board shorts. “I don’t have time for you or your latest schemes right now, Derrick.”

  “I have no schemes, Cupcake,” he said. “No motives. I am pure as the driven snow. Have you missed me?”

  “Perhaps if you stayed away for longer than a minute, I would miss you,” I lied.

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “Which feels like a minute,” I said. “My boyfriend’s on his way over and I don’t want your half naked ass anywhere near me, or him.”

  “I noticed a diary resting on your hovel’s kitchen counter. I, too, have recently taken up journaling,” he said.

  I swiveled and shoved my index finger at his dead, albeit still overly Botoxed face. “You. Are not allowed. To read my Diary! Somewhere in the cosmic rulebook of life, there is a statute that states dead people who ruined another person’s life, are not allowed to read journals that contain their victim’s private thoughts and feelings. So cut it out, and take a hike until my date is over. Or better yet, leave—forever!”

  “I would love to leave forever. I am dying to go to the Afterlife. Unfortunately, I am still trapped here on this insipid mortal plane. I have the utmost respect for you, Annie. I would never do anything to compromise our relationship,” Derrick said.

  “You slept with my soon to be ex-husband, ruined my marriage, killed my business, blackmailed me into solving your murder, and you’ve been haunting me for months.”

  “Except for the ‘haunting’ comment, which I prefer to call ‘nurturing’, that’s all in the past, Cupcake. Holding onto old grudges makes one bitter and is a surefire way to age more quickly. Is that a new wrinkle I see on your forehead?” He squinted at me. “Besides, I would never dream of violating the sacred Diary boundary. Journaling is a wonderful confessional outlet for saints and sinners, alike. Aren’t you the least bit curious to know what I’m writing about in mine?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “No. I don’t care if you’re journaling about world peace, Amway products, or sensitive men thinking overly-sensitive thoughts.” There was a curt knock on my front door. “Raphael’s here.” I walked through my living room. “Amscray.” I unbolted, then pulled open the door expecting to see one gorgeous man: six foot two inches tall, jet-black hair, and shoulders with muscles so ripped you could trace them with your fingertips for hours. But Raphael Campillio was not there.

  Instead, a scrawny, short deliveryman held a vase filled with flowers in one hand and picked his nose with his other. “Ms. Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino?”

  “Piccolino’s my married name. As soon as I’m divorced from Satan, I’m happily dropping that last name like a lonely, albeit hopeful, inmate drops a bar of soap in a prison shower.”

  “I have flowers for Ms. Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino,” the deliveryman said. “I don’t care if you’re married, or what your last name is. I’m just here to deliver some flowers. Do you want the bouquet, lady?”

  Why would Raphael send me flowers? He was on his way over to my place. Unless something had come up at work, and he’d been detained. But wouldn’t he have just called? We’d been dating for six months now. It’s not like we were super formal with each other. Neither of us had even uttered the L word that rhymes with dove. (I’m not saying it out loud, or even writing it down as the guy needs to say it first, or there can be disastrous consequences.) Unless, unless…

  We’d Been Dating For Six Months Now! Perhaps these were anniversary flowers, or maybe a declaration of love flowers, or maybe even—oh my God, Diary—holy smokes, hold the door, keep your skirt on. What if these were ‘Raphael wanted to ask me to marry him’ flowers!

  “Eek!” I screamed, jumped up and down, and fluttered my hands excitedly.

  “Ack!” the deliveryman stumbled a few steps back and bobbled the vase.

  “Meow!” Theodore squeaked, raced through the living room, flattened himself like an animated rug on the floor and wriggled under the couch.

  “Contain yourself!” Derrick said. “Might I remind you that you don’t seem to have good karma in the delivery department.”

  “Hand them to me!” I shouted at the deliveryman. “Hand them to me!” I grabbed the vase from him, strode a few feet and placed it carefully on my coffee table. I swiped my purse from the couch, fumbled for my wallet, pulled out a few bills, turned back and tipped him. “Thank you! Thank you so very much!”

  “Any time.” He grabbed the cash and bolted, as I slammed the door so Teddy couldn’t sneak outside and get lost.

  Flowers, Dear Diary! Flowers from my beloved, my true love, possibly my soon-to-be fiancé—Raphael Campillio. My hands shook as I unwrapped the card from the envelope, held it in front of me, and read:

  “My sweet Annie,

  I hope you don’t mind an affectionate gesture from someone who has thought of you not only fondly, but also frequently over the years. It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, but I surmised from your posts on your FB page, that you, too, were extricating yourself from a painful marriage. I want to be there for you during a difficult time. Feel free to call me at 702/555-1212, or e-mail me at MackSellsCaddies@WEPOC.com. I asked Julia to forward your address to the florist, as I did not want to intrude on your privacy.

  Looking forward to calling you ‘friend’ once again.

  Fondly,

  Mack McManus”

  “Crap!” I said. “They’re not from Raphael.”

  “I know,” Derrick said.

  I swiveled and felt a little nauseous as my head passed through his ghostly, naked, dead chest. Per usual, he was smack-dab behind me, reading the note over my shoulder. “Blech! How many times have I told you to stand at least a foot away from me?”

  “Have you told me about Mack?” Derrick asked. “Do you have any pictures of him?”

  I flipped my laptop open to Mack’s Facebook page. “See for yourself.”

  “You need to fill the vase with water before these flowers wilt.”

  I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a skinny, plastic cup from my cupboard.

  “He’s cute,” Derrick said. “An old beau, I assume.”

  “Former college boyfriend. Jeez, I wish these had been from Rafe. You don’t think he’ll get jealous, do you? Like—should I toss them before he gets here?” I filled the cup with tap water.

  “Definitely not. Alpha men need competition. I wrote about that in my best selling
book: I Promise—You Can Win the Alpha Man’s Heart. Hey, your giant feline’s eating your flowers. I don’t know if you want the bouquet to be nibbled on…”

  “Who cares,” I said. “It’s not like they’re engagement flowers.”

  “What are ‘engagement flowers?’” Derrick asked.

  “Engagement flowers are special flowers. These are nice—but nothing-special flowers.” I glanced at the bouquet resting on the coffee table as sprigs of baby’s breath camouflaged Theodore’s head but could not hide his massive body. “The gesture was sweet, but this looks like an average bouquet to me. Some carnations, baby’s breath, filler greenery, a couple of roses, and—”

  “Lots of lilies,” Derrick said. “I do believe that’s what your monster cat is noshing on.”

  I swiveled so fast, the cup flew out of my hand, and the water sprayed onto what should have been Derrick’s head—but instead sailed through it.

  Theodore was munching on the lily stems. Do you know how POISONOUS lilies are to cats, Diary? Like, a few nibbles and their kidneys shut down and your cat is DEAD. Yes, it can happen that fast, and yes, I know this because we almost lost my first cat, Fluffy, to Easter Lily poisoning when I was twelve-years-old.

  I leapt across the room, grabbed my cat, pried his jaws open, and stuck my finger down his throat as he wriggled wildly. But unfortunately, that maneuver didn’t have the same effect on cats that it had on humans.

  “What in God’s creation, are you doing?” Derrick said.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” I hollered.

  Raphael paced into the room. “What the hell?”

  “He just ate lilies!” I burst into tears but would not release my stranglehold on Theodore.